Haunting Mask: Hiding Behind the Shadow
by Ellyndia McGovern III
Summary: My Snape-is-a-father-story. Rated R for excessive pain and violence. When Sylvia moves to Hogwarts, she gets a unique view of her father... CANON READERS PLEASE READ NOTE!


Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. I do however own the character of Sylvia and the plot. Please don't take her or the plot without my permission. If you do, it's like you take a part of my soul, because Sylvia is me. So please. Don't.

Haunting Irony: Hiding Behind the Shadow

_"He had always known what I did not know and what, when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that then, although I learned it later."_ A Farewell to Arms _Ernest Hemingway._

I looked in my father's private stores for his powdered rat's spleen. I was surprised that he could find anything in his cabinet. The mass chaos of his cabinet was known for its efficient storing of ingredients, but that did not automatically mean that I knew exactly where it was. Which often caused short, wild tiffs between my father and I.   
"What's taking so damn long?" my delightful father (can't you tell the sarcasm?) yelled from across the house.   
"I'm coming, Dad!" I could hear his mutters about how it would have been easier if he just went and got it himself. I might have taken it in truth if I was not looking for the bottle. Lucky my prayers were answered, and I found the dusty jar of a greenish-brown powder. I knew it was the rat spleen, didn't need the label, if there ever was one. But Dad was not the one to need to read labels. There was a reason he taught Potions at one of the most prestigious wizard schools in Britain.   
I took the steps up from the basement in threes, and as I ran past old, rarely-used rooms in our immaculate house, kept tidy by the multitude of house elves to the spare room Dad used as his laboratory, I could not help but feel a bit lucky that I was allowed to learn from such a master. It was our way of...bonding, I think. I had shown an affinity to Potions at an early age, and he took me under his wing, letting me help him cut ingredients, stir potions, and sweep up. Once I progressed in my studies, and learned more about the scientific reasons behind reactions, theory became the topic of our discussions. It was nice, at times, to have a mind to come home to and discuss such deep provoking thoughts.  
"Damn it Sylvia! If I have to get up..."  
I opened the door and walked in, careful to avoid the miscellaneous equipment on the floor. I handed it to my dad, who unscrewed the lid and smelled the contents.  
"Is this it?" he asked, looking up from the potion which was bubbling a nice dull green.  
"Yes. That was the only one I found."  
He looked into the container again, inspecting the contents with a trained eye. He turned to another table and took a small spoon to measure an amount.  
"Can I do it, Dad?" I asked, always liking to measure out the materials.  
No verbal acknowledgment, just handed me the rat's spleen and the spoon. "Remember, only two level scoops."  
"Right, Dad. I know." I had done this potion many times before, and it annoyed me that he didn't trust me to remember how to make this particular potion.   
I measured out two scoops of the rat spleen, and threw them into the cauldron. After the second scoop, it turned a bright orange, still at a frothy boil. It was almost done, but required to boil at this temperature for at least an hour.   
I braced my hands on my hips, while Dad leaned his hand upon one of the tables. We stood like that for about a minute, eyes concentrating on the boiling potion, critically watching it. Neither of us left the room. The only sound was the gentle boil of the potion and the rush of the magical fire underneath it.  
Eyes still on the potion, Dad spoke.  
"How would you feel about coming to Hogwarts?"  
I looked up, and saw my father's figure standing there. He looked at me too, and we had eye contact.   
"Well....what about my schooling at Keaton?"  
"What about it?"  
I stopped. What was holding me back? I did not like Keaton, and I felt I had exceeded its potential for Potions advancement. How Dad knew this, I did not know.  
Another pause where the only melody was the boiling potion.  
"I have talked to Dumbledore, and he says you would be more than welcome. You would enter as a 6th year."  
"Well....I don't see a problem with it. I'm quite sick of all those idiots in class, and would enjoy the challenge of a new environment," I finally stated.  
Another pause. Dad reached for a glass stirring rod and stirred the mixture. Brief splotches of green showed up, then disappeared. I was intrigued.  
"Why did the green show up again?" I asked.  
"The cauldron was not cleaned properly after making this solution last time, and the potion was allow to dry and crust." He looked at me accusingly.   
"Sorry Dad."   
He sighed. "Clean up the table," he commanded.  
I did, taking all the tools to the sink to wash off. It occurred to me that I could have easily used a spell to clean up the debris, or had one of the multitude of House Elves clean it. But I felt a sort of...perverse pleasure in the manual manipulation of the items, feeling the grit of the sand wash off my fingers, the slick feel of the corn oil on the instruments tried and true instruments of my father, held between my very hands. It was an honor to even touch the tools of his trade, and I knew it.  
It was between the sound of the rushing water in which he talked again.  
"You would have to take my class."  
I looked up into the mirror that was placed above the sink. I could see Dad looking at me. I continued to wash the tools as I responded, "So?"  
No response from Dad.   
"I mean," as I scrubbed at a scalpel with some dry crud on it, "I wouldn't expect you to treat me any different than your students. You are their Potions Master," I couldn't help but smile at his epithet, "and you do have a reputation to uphold."  
I had turned around to dry the scalpel, and was able to see a bare smile flit across Dad's face. It was always nice to see him smile.   
I returned to my job of cleaning the table, putting stuff away in a crazy organizational system that only he and I knew. He was silent, always observant, sometimes looking out the windows to the expansive yard of our house.  
"So," I continued, wanting to further the conversation. "When do I go?"  
"Tomorrow."  
"Tomorrow?!" It was Sunday afternoon. School at Keaton started a few weeks from today. I had planned on a few more weeks of rest....  
_Oh dad. You sneaky manipulator you._  
"You seem pretty sure of my answer to have already set this up."  
"You were going to go anyway," he said, his black eyes boring into mine as I stood there, brass scale in hand. But I for one was not intimidated.  
"Hmmm. Well, thanks for letting me give my opinion."  
"You're welcome."  
Uneasy pause, but only a bit. This sort of talk was normal for us. We were always biting back on each other, because we were so similar. And I didn't mind one bit. I just had to watch so I don't cross the fragile line between Daughter and Father. Sometimes we fought with brilliant virility, next moment we were on the same plane, almost as if we had one mind. Extreme ends of the intellectual spectrum. The duality of the relationship intrigued me, and I had gotten used to living with the occupational hazards of such a relationship with my father.  
I finished in silence, wiped my hands off, and went to sit in an empty chair, facing dad, who now leaned against the wall, right arm against the decorative columns, drink in hand. I felt immediate relief when I sat. I had been standing for about 2 hours.  
"So, what House am I in?"  
It was more of a joke than anything, and I expected it to be taken as such by my father. But he looked away from the window and stared at me, giving me the look that said _Why are you insulting me by even asking?_  
"Right, right." I responded, out loud. Of _course_ I would be in Slytherin. It would be a great insult to our family for me to _not_ be in Slytherin.   
I looked out the window at the summer afternoon. I almost regretted not being able to "frolic" (if you call reading multitudes of books and writing random essays "frolicking") for another year. It was more like a freedom of the mind. I had spent my summer at home, helping Dad, reading, and writing. My only companions were facts: my only hobby, logic. And I suppose I was truly becoming my father's daughter, when I chose long afternoons mixing draughts over swimming or Quidditch. I smiled at the ideal, as if that was the only thing that mattered.  
The potion soon was done and we worked, in silence, in finishing up the task.

The next morning, we both woke early to leave. I walked around the manor, watching the elves clean it up, and I tried to hide my excitement. See, I had only seen my father on the holidays; I lived at Keaton during the school year. The idea that I was going to be able to spend more time with my father.... I couldn't get to sleep that night. My walk through the house was wide, smooth, but my nervous energy was evident in the way I traversed all corners of the house, from my room, to the lab, to the formal living room and the kitchen. Several times the house elves tripped me, getting things ready for their Master's absence. Perhaps it was because I almost tripped over an elf that I went outside.  
When I exited the house, I could see the elves securing my trunk to the top of the carriage. I noticed my trunk too, dark green and black with a "SS" lock. Dad's black but much plainer trunk was secured up there already.  
"Hey!" I yelled to a house elf. "That's not enough rope to secure my trunk!. It'll bounce off the second we hit the road!" They ran around, climbing up again to tie my trunk up tighter.  
Dad joined me soon after, and we both entered the carriage. We sat across from each other, on a diagonal. I could not help but sigh a bit as we left the place where I had been happy for the past two months. I was leaving personal study for regimented learning. But it really wasn't that different. The school year just added the annoying interaction of others.  
We rode in silence. Where others might have talked, we were more comfortable in silence, more content with our our thoughts. But halfway to Hogwarts, Dad broke the comfortable silence.  
"You are to address me as Professor Snape when we are at school," he said, after no apparent outside influence.  
"Yes, sir," I said, clear and distinct. I didn't expect to find much problem with that requirement, since at Keaton I had called my uncle by "Professor" all the time, and never thought twice about blending that epithet with the "Uncle" I called him at family gatherings.   
We sat afterward in stoic silence, each looking out their own window at the passing scenery. I held in my lap one of my books, Archaic Uses for Toad's Warts , one well-read, much marked, and thoroughly memorized book. I wondered how different my father was in the classroom, where he is the dominate figure. Even as I looked upon his profile, his aquiline nose and pale face, observant, crucial black eyes, watching the scenery, I deduced that he could not be much different. I imagine that he would not suddenly break into song, or start complimenting everyone on their "nice try." It was going to be interesting to see how my father conducts himself in front of others. I wonder if the students realize, as I do, that his cold demeanor is only a front? I wonder if they will realize (like I did, but after much work) that he's only trying to help them, teach them?  
He turned toward me suddenly.  
"What are you looking at?"  
"Nothing, Dad." I turned toward my window, and could see a magnificent castle upon the horizon. That must be it, I thought, as our carriage drew closer.  
We reached the gate, where a few elves were there, ready to take our luggage. We got off the coach, and started walking toward the impressive front doors. I straightened my back, and looked straight ahead of me, (unknowingly copying my father's movements). Without turning my head, I asked Dad-  
"Do those elves know what they're doing?"  
"Of course they do," he said, still walking. I had a feeling he was a bit sterner and colder now, because he was at work. I knew I shouldn't expect anything less.  
He opened the door, and we walked in. I followed closely on the heels of my father, not wanting to get lost in this huge place. I kept my eyes open and my senses on alert; I didn't have to think, I automatically took in the information and analyzed it, knowing that bathrooms were located on each end of the ground floor; staircases led up to other stairs, and seeing that I should avoid the 6th step on the northwest flight of stairs leading up to what was probably more classrooms and a dormitory (seeing as trunks and animals were being hauled through that entryway).  
We wove through the halls, until we reached an impressive griffin statue. My father muttered "Lemon Drops," and the statue moved, to reveal a door. I had never seen anything like that before. Keaton was a run-down place where we had nothing of this sort.   
Dad opened the door, and entered. Unsure as to whether I should follow, I paused a moment at the door until the condescending look from my father beckoned me inside.  
We entered upon a circular room, with all sorts of pictures of people on the walls, and various nicknacks scattered among the room. Besides the beautiful phoenix sitting on a stand (Fawkes, I believe Dad once mentioned was its name) there were two other people in the room. One was an old woman, hair tight in a bun atop her head, dressed in a green robe. She was standing, and greeted my father by first name when he entered. An old man, sitting at the desk, seemed almost the archetypal wizard. His eyes twinkled between his spectacles as he also addressed my father by his first name. I stood in silence, waiting to be introduced.  
The lady in green noticed me first, and approached. I stood as tall as I could and made eye contact.  
"You must be Sylvia! My, how you've grown since the last time I saw you! You were about nine or ten, right?"  
"Yes ma'am," as I shook her hand quickly and efficiently, two strong pumps, then release. I didn't remember ever meeting this woman. She reminded me of my grandmother on my mother's side, always smothering me with kisses and saying "Oh _honey_." Ugh.  
"Yes, Severus, she has definitely matured into a young lady," the man noticed, as he got up, went around his desk and came to shake my hand. Even as I shaked his hand, I felt awesome power flow through him. And yet when I made eye contact with him (that's something Dad taught me- always make eye contact whenever you first meet someone) his eyes seemed to emanate kindness, a feeling that I only feel subtly with my father.  
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Sylvia." the man said. I nodded my head in silent acceptance. I could feel my father's presence on my left side, almost waiting for this to be over. But the man continued:  
"We hope you enjoy your stay here. I am Albus Dumbledore and this is Minerva McGonagall. I am the headmaster of this school, Professor McGonagall teaches Transfiguration."  
McGonagall nodded.  
"And you know what you're father teaches..." I turned to Dad. He turned from Dumbledore's gaze. It was a bit of an insult to him as well as me to have my father pointed out as one of my teachers, I could tell.  
"Well, here's your schedule," he said, handing me a piece of paper. "I'll exempt you from the courses the other students took in their earlier years, due to the advanced courses you have taken."  
"Thank you sir." I bowed my head in respect and looked toward Dad again. His hands were behind his back in an act of...submission? servitude? Certainly not his usual adjectives of dominance, power, influence.  
"Well, if you have any questions," the Headmaster was saying, "feel free to ask me. In the meantime, let's go to the feast. It should be starting now. I heard that the elves have been perfecting a wonderful duck saute that I've been waiting all summer to try."  
He left the room, glowing with blissful content. McGonagall shook my hand again. "It is such a pleasure to meet you at last, Sylvia. Your father keeps boasting about you and your progress in school."   
I blushed, looking toward my father for some sort of encouragement. But he merely held an inscrutable mask as she left the room. He and I waited for her to leave, then just as I was heading for the door--  
"Sylvia."  
I turned around to see my father. He paused, meaningfully.  
"Be careful what you say around here."  
I looked at my father concernedly. The tone of his voice said it all; warning, warning, warning screamed in his subtext, though he had merely removed his hands from his back. There must be something deeper here, I thought. People I had to watch out for.   
"I will." I matched his low tone almost perfectly. I had learned long ago to take all the advice that my father gave me seriously.   
With that we left, feeling the polyester robes swish around my body as I followed my father into the Great Hall.

The gluttony of the school! People eating all this food, a whole catalogue of sensual delights. I wondered why they fed them this much food, when they know it won't all be eaten. It was a waste. I helped myself to a bit of chicken, and observed the inhabitants of the school. I was not spartan enough to deny that the food was excellent, though.  
Many of them were fat. Weak physically. I suppose this would have been fine, if they had intellect to compensate. But they didn't. They sat inactive, allowing themselves to get bigger with every day, while they bickered and complained about the classes. I didn't need to even sit in a class with them-- their syntax, the casual manner which they talked about education, the latest McGonagall-bashing joke.  
It was with a certain relief that dinner ended, and I followed a bunch of Slytherins as they took the trip to their dormitory The dungeons got colder and colder, the torches casting odd shadows on the walls. But I merely followed them, remaining silent, observant.  
I entered the Slytherin commonroom, and from the moment I entered, I felt like I was at home. I personally liked the room, with its reading chairs, and green lights illuminating the room, and the ornate fireplace. Reminded me of the one at home, where I would sit and read. The people, however, did not like the new addition.  
The others looked at me, startled at this stranger walking into their commonroom. A silver-haired boy spoke up first.  
"Who are you, and what are you doing in here?" he demanded of me, like he owned the joint.  
"I am a Slytherin. See?"  
I held up my robes, where the dim lights illuminated the Slytherin snake.  
The stupid git walked over to me, and went to reach for my robes. I grabbed his wrist and forced it away.   
"Don't touch me." Low and threatening. I was not trying to imitate my dad, I felt generally threatened by this moron. I also wanted to seem imposing. He backed away. The guy smirked just a bit, as if he approved of my behavior, and held out his hand.  
"The name's Draco Mafloy."  
"Sylvia." I shook his hand, strong grip, two pumps, release. I couldn't believe that Malfoy was so daft. He didn't ask for any proof; I could have been a random person, or even worse, a Gryffandor who stole some robes. Eh, I thought. I can play upon his stupidity.  
"What's your surname?" He inquired, after he let go. Everyone was now paying attention to our conversation, still close to the door.  
"You don't know?"  
"Should I?"  
An ugly pause. I remember what dad said about watching what I revealed. I looked further at his face. Smooth , pale, a bit round, reminiscent of a spoiled childhood. I decided to speak enigmatically.   
"I don't know. You have met my father." I crossed to an empty chair, sat, and crossed my legs, very theatrically, I thought. Poor guy, he was confused. I could see him searching his memory for any clue. I could not help but smile at the probability that the first influential adult he passed over, besides his father, was his precious Professor Snape; it was people like Malfoy who always amazed me how fallic the mind really is.  
He gave up, and reverted to insults.  
"Well, why won't you tell us? Are you embarrassed of your lineage? Do you know of a Muggle in your family tree?"  
The others laughed. I however, remained as blank as ever.  
"Not at all," I said, clasping my hands across my stomach, looking at Mafloy. "My family is perhaps one of the oldest pure wizarding families that exists."  
"Then what is it?" he said.  
"Do you want to know?"  
"Yes!"  
"Do you really want to know?"  
"Yes, dammit! Tell me!"  
I paused, feeling my power over the room increased as everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to my response. I spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they heard every word- I was like my dad in that way. I did not try to hide my bare smile as I told them my surname.  
There was dead silence in the room. Mafloy was taken aback-literally, taking a few steps into two big goons which only vaguely resembles people. I could sense them comparing their images of their beloved Head of House to myself, as I sat in the chair. I could feel the moment of recognition, when they saw the similarities in our carriage, our smirks, the voice, down to the same hair, pale face, and black fathomless eyes. I could see my power in the room increase.  
I waited for them to voice their disbelief, to offer counterpoints, but they said naught a word. They believed me. Every word.  
I got up, and theatrically feigned dusting myself off. "Well, if you don't mind, I'm a little tired from my journey. Which way is the girl's dormitory?"  
Mafloy pointed to a door. "Second floor," he muttered, still dazed.  
"Thank you." I left in a blaze of glory, congratulating myself on a splendid first impression, going a little faster than normal so that my robes billowed like my dad's.

The whispers were encouraging. As I moved through the halls on our first day of classes, they seemed as natural to me as Potions were to Dad. I enjoyed it, actually, the tension that others lived in around me. At Keaton no one ever found out I was related to a teacher there because there was never any need to divulge it. But here- they feared me. Sure, it was because of my dad, but they would never know if I told him anything, right? So I could lie, cheat, and steal, pilfer information, create trouble, and they would never find out. Ooh, even as I opened the door to my first class, transfiguration, I could feel the air pregnant with possibilities. Possibilities that I knew I would never take, because I did have a sense of morals, thank you very much.  
But they didn't know that.  
McGonagall was quite different in front of her students. Shrewd, demanding, observant, she could have been paralleled with Dad in demeanor. I had my other classes, and they too kept up with the level of expectations from their students, though many were able to even be comical and crack jokes and be dare I say-popular- with their students. Professor Flitwick, with his easily excitable personality and unique mannerisms, was still able to answer our advanced questions about the nature of Concealment Charms. Madam Trewlawny, who might be a bit too aloof for my tastes, still was a favorite among the others, because everything she said seemed to come true (or else the students convinced themselves it came true). And even Professor Binns, though I did find myself occasionally dozing off in his class, rattled off the information in such a smooth and logical manner to bring awe of History to this little Potions student. I am amazed even now that such an eclectic group of people, who had the same level of expertise and dedication to their subject, just as Dad has to Potions, and yet their personalities were so...different.   
And then, well, I had dad's class. It was a double Potions, and my first class with the Gryffandors. The Gryffandors whispered and looked at me as I walked, straight and proud, to the only remaining seat- one next to a rather fat, terrified Gryffandor. I shuddered with disgust at the weak will of the boy I had happened to sit next to. I sat, quiet, while others talked in low voices, as if they didn't want me to hear them. I didn't need to guess that the rumor had flown through the school that I was here.   
Suddenly the door opened, and my father walked in. Everyone stopped, brought out their books, and became silent. I was immediately impressed. Such power to have a whole class go _silent_ at his mere entrance! Wow.... I was in awe. He went up to the board, turned toward us, and stopped. He looked at me, hiding whatever he was thinking so well, then swerved to the board to write and lecture.   
Apparently we were to do a vision-clearing potion. I obviously had an advantage because I had helped dad make his so often I could do it in my sleep. I could not but help to think of the irony of that particular potion- it was the one we were making only yesterday, when he told me I was going to Hogwarts. I think he even chose that particular potion for that reason. I smiled innerly and hope he knew I got the allusion as he finished the instructions.   
He swept around the room, and as I watched the poor boy make the potion (he really had no business even touching a cauldron) I kept an eye on my father. He literally swept around, same cruel critical eye telling the students what they were doing wrong, docking grades (and House points). In his wake I saw the Gryffandor students fume with pent-up anger, and I couldn't help but feel pity. If they got mad at their professor for telling them they were wrong for 2 hrs a few days a week and couldn't deal with it, then, I noted with some satisfaction, they had no chance of surviving the criticisms _I_ get from him.  
The fat boy eventually quit his efforts, and sat down, letting me do all the work. And I let him, because I hated unneeded baggage weighing down and slowing my progress. Besides, I couldn't help thinking cruelly, he was probably afraid to say or do anything wrong for fear that I could react like dad. It was probably true.  
I was ahead of the others by the time dad came to our table. At the approach of dad, the fat boy jumped up.  
Dad looked at the potion, which at this stage was a bright green, looked at me, looked at the boy, looked at me again. Then, looking directly at the boy, he spoke.  
"Why is this potion green, Longbottom?"  
Longbottom proceeded to blather and shake with ignorance. I could have found his act hilarious, and rather did in reflection later that day, but then, in front of my father, on such a simple question , I could not resist.  
"It's because the henna is reacting with the mashed millet under the presence of the iguana's blood," I recited, for it was something that Dad had asked me so often at home. Instead of praise, he gave me a stare, a dirty stare which spoke of contempt, similar to the one I noticed he gave Potter a few moments ago.  
"Is your name Mr. Longbottom?" he asked me sardonically.  
"No sir."  
"Then do not answer for him."  
I had the sense that Longbottom was bewildered- perhaps he had never seen anybody look Dad in the eye and not blink, as I did that moment. I let my look say it all- my disgust of his blatant ignoring me, his apparent disregard for the right answer.  
He looked away from me, toward Longbottom, and then left. I was rather surprised that he didn't dock points. I would have, had someone spoken out of turn. I hoped he wasn't playing favorites.  
Longbottom crept toward me, as I kept my concentration on making a scoop of rat's spleen level. He spoke hesitantly, quietly, as if he was afraid of speaking in from of me.  
"A-a-are you really...."  
I paused, not visually acknowledging him, amazed that someone was actually stuttering in my presence.  
"Yes," I said, finishing off the level and dumping the scoop in to the cauldron, and watching the potion turn a bright orange.  
"Wow..." Longbottom said. "It turned _orange_."  
As if the concept of orange was foreign. Or that he's never seen a potion turn out right.  
I was unimpressed. I was definately going to have to talk to dad about this kid. I didn't deserve to work with this idiot. I thought this school was selective....  
"We have to wait an hour for it to boil," I explained patiently to the kid. I sat down, and started work on the work Dad had given us to do while the potion was boiling. Of course, stupid Longbottom and their cohorts (mainly everyone else) talked and socialized. Ugh. Such a vile word. Of course, dad caught half of them socializing, and gave them a rather eloquent tongue-lashing (and docked a few points).  
I could not help but smirk as I dipped my quill into my ink, and hearing Potter yell something. Something about work, and this being unfair. I just looked into my potion, which was almost done (you could tell when the orange turned red-tinged) as dad yelled at Potter, and gave him a detention. I wrote a final figure on the finished work, turned down the fire, and ladled the potion into an awaiting bottle to be graded.

I waited outside the door as I heard Dad yelling (properly, I thought) at Potter. After awhile, he exited, cussing out my father. I said nothing as I entered.  
I was risking it, yes, I know. But I talked anyway. Looking back, it seemed that I had forgotten not to talk to my father after he gets mad. It always takes him a while to come down.  
(I laugh when I hear people say that my dad is angry all the time. His vindictiveness is a cycle, and some days are definately better than others.)  
I stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to look up. He didn't. How typical. Leave the students waiting- he was the important one. I knew him like the back of my hand. I didn't wait for a signal, I just spoke.  
"Professor-" I said, remembering the epithet, "Is there any way to move Longbottom?"  
No response.  
"I mean- I hate to say it- but he's an idiot. I can't stand working with him- he couldn't find his way out of a cauldron if his life depended upon it."  
He looked up. Again, the same unreadable expression.   
"Is that all?" he replied, but I could tell I was to infer_ Are you really here to complain about Longbottom?_  
"Yes," I answered the unspoken question. He looked at me, finally, furrowing his eyebrows in disdain.  
"What do you want me to do- remove him from the class? Have him kicked out of Hogwarts just because he annoys you?"  
I was startled. He was getting hostile- and it sounded like he was annoyed.  
"No sir, but-"  
"Then leave."  
I headed out the door. However, dad (as he was prone to do) called my name (my first name) right as I was heading out the door.  
I closed the door gently and met my father's gaze, looking mighty vindictive. Why the change in epithet?  
"I wonder," he asked, not with an air of curosity but with the air of one who knows the truth, "if you had heard certain rumors floating 'round the school."  
"Rumors fly around here all the time."   
"I mean in regard to a certain student."  
Oh. So that's what this is about. _I hate when he pulls this._  
"I've heard things," I responded as ambiguously as he did. I can play the game too, Dad. I thought, savagely. I knew rumors were often spread so thickly and liberally like jam on a piece of toast, you didn't wonder at the absurdity of the amount at this school, but either he is more watchful over his students as he appears to be, or it must have been consistant....  
He didn't respond immediately. But when he did it was in exact rebuttal to my inward argument-  
"Such rumors, Miss _Snape_, " he said, with the tinest inflection, cementing the tone of the conversation, "usually do not reach my attention. But the one I'm referring to is particularly interesting, due to the amount of truth behind it."  
I dropped my books to my side, knowing I wasn't going to go anywhere for awhile. I wondered what his problem was with me telling people who I was-  
From the depths of my memory, a line emerged-  
_"Be careful what you say around here."_  
I felt my body twist away from him, feel the bubble of insight dawn upon my head-   
"That's why you're mad." I mouthed, hoping that he heard it, fearing if he did. He hadn't though, because he had turned his attention to something on a table. But how could just my name bring so much controversy?  
Well, I can't say he didn't warn me.  
It was infinately harder to read him with his back to me, but then, I suppose that was the point. I took a breath and responded:   
"Sir, with all due respect, I wouldn't exactly trust the rumors that circulate around the school."  
He however stood up, and was trying to figure me out- I wonder what he thought- if he thought I was blind about the topic, if I knew exactly what I was talking about, or something completely different.   
"Mr. Mafloy spent the majority of the class discussing with his fellow Slytherins about a unique person who just entered this insitution."  
He gave me that same look, and continued.  
"Seems he thinks that this certain person's presence will cause a certain instructor to favor whomever is aquainted with this....person."  
I was a bit disturbed by his use of the term "certain person." But I started feeling a bit angry- this is enough.  
"Stop it."  
He was taken out of his diatribe by this statement. I was sick of dealing in this dance of superiority, so I struck.  
"I told them, Dad."  
  
Certainly what I said was unusual. I suppose out of common courtesy I should have let him finish his turn before knocking the board into the floor.  
In the silence that followed I remarked upon the irony of the situation- a rumor proving to be true, not started from someone inconspicuous but from the person themself  
He had turned to me again, his eyes burning with a hidden fury- he was angry, for some reason- I could not deduce why- he can't be angry for no reason- and yet those eyes burned with a fire-  
I expected some long-winded assult, but he merely turned to me and asked:  
"Why?"  
"I don't know. I didn't see any harm in doing so."  
I saw his head sag, in the act of concentrating on the floor, but his eyes were unfocused; his fast mind lost in thought. The pause was immense, or so it seemed to me, while my father calculated and analyzed something far beyond my comprehension. I waited to see if I could find out how my component, however small it might be, caused him to stop in the middle of a diatribe and speak the most unsure-of word in the world--why.  
I heard him breath a little sigh, and saw him move to a bookshelf, where he looked at the titles with seeming disinterest. Without turning, he spoke.  
"Do not tell anyone else anything about your background. _Anything_."  
"Yes sir," I said, though the calmness of my voice hid the incredulity of his request. . He kept his back to me as he stared at the titles- and I got the feeling that he didn't want me to see his face.   
Did he realize that he was basically forbidding me to make friends? And yet, I noticed even as I picked up my books from the floor, that based on what I had seen that day, I did not want to be their _friends_. I didn't even want to be a part of their _house_.  
I made my way for the door- sensing more than anything- that the conversation was over. As I picked up by books, I saw him pick out a volume with his long slender hands, hands which I'm proud to say I inherited.  
Without another glance, I opened the door, and let myself out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
What do I say? I existed. Work was done, and I lived. I soon got into a comfortable cycle of life- eat, school, homework, bed. I didn't think anything of it at the time, and the months flew. I didn't tell anyone anything, I honored my father's request, yet I wondered why he had such a concern about my _name_. I eventually figured out that he knew something I didn't know, and that he was, in his way, teaching me a lesson; that I shouldn't reveal information to just anyone. I took the lesson to heart; I remained silent; but then I didn't have the whole House flocking to me for my friendship. Some tried though, a few daring souls, but I blew them away with either my coldness or lack of feeling to their attempts at friendship, or my superior knowedge and dedication to my schoolwork. Even Mafloy tried to pull something on me, first with friendship, then something deeper. I wanted to ever-so-much to cast a hex on him, but I kept my anger down, and amused myself on the way to class about things I could do to him. But they saw mainly what I was, or rather, who I was related to, and kept their distance.  
Despite their best intentions, I saw many rule infrations- girls taking boys to the dormatory, stealing, cheating on tests. Could I have told dad? Maybe. Because all of these would warrent punishment. But something told me I was not to just spend my life picking out and tattling on others. I hated that in Mafloy, I hated that in the other Slytherins. No- I was meant to watch. And watch I did. I learned more from being quiet than others could learn from asking all the questions in the world. Sure, they probably said things about me- names, profane things. But I really didn't care. Ha! I said to them. I am better than you in so many ways. It was great.  
But I was getting bored. I wanted to do something. Something to occupy my nighttime hours...  
One day, in this period of floating, I happened to overhear Potter talking to his friends. I overheard 4 simple words, one a contraction, so it could be five, which piqued my curiosity.  
"We'll do it tonight."  
Something strange awoke in me, the old beast that is curiosity. What was "it"? Before I knew it, I had hid behind a statue so I could listen to them talk.  
The time went past quickly. One of them-Potter perhaps- detailed a quick plan. They were going to break into Dad's office and steal some potion ingrediants for some potion they were making. The trio left, and I emerged. Do I tell dad? This was certainly different than someone cheating on a test- this was a breach of privacy. But, my paradigms ruled, and as if my body had a mind of its own, I found myself running to Dad's office.

I knew I was off to a bad start when I ran into the room without knocking. All I saw was Dad, hands on a table, and a student that I had never seen before. Before Dad could even say anything, I had closed the door.   
I waited outside until the student came out, pretty shaken.  
"I wouldn't talk to him right now," he said. "he's pretty pissed."  
The student walked away.  
Pissed or no pissed, I knew Dad had to know this.  
I entered.  
He looked at me, still caught up in the conversation beforehand.   
"What was so damn important that you had to interrupt me?"  
"Its about Potter, Dad."  
He immediately perked up (well, as much as Dad does, anyway), removing his hands from the table. "What about Potter?"  
"He and his friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasely, are going to break into your office tonight to steal some ingrediants for a potion they are going to make. Something illicit, no doubt-" I spoke, seeing Dad don his ever-thick mask of thought. I had the feeling he was disappointed at something....  
He stood for a bit, then bent down to get a piece of paper. He went to search for a quill, then stopped and swung his gaze on me.  
He paused. I paused. We didn't say a word, intently studying each other, like a showdown of sorts. He crossed to his desk, staring at me. I remained standing.  
"Why did you tell me?" His tone took a new but often-heard color of..._disgust_?  
"Well, I know I would want to know if someone was going to break into my office. I thought you would punish Potter- I mean, it_ is_ wrong to break into a teacher's room, isn't it?"  
"_Silence!_"  
I shut up. He sat in his chair and waited again. I was getting new vibes from dad- more like disappointment, now. I wasn't sure. But he sure was hostile.  
With a sudden movement he grabbed a stack of assignments, a quill, and started marking them, his hair creating a curtain which blocked his sight of me.  
It didn't take any effort to see the conversation was over. I turned and silently swept out of the room.

I left his room in a fit of rage. One couldn't tell, probably, by my external appreance- I walked down the halls of Hogwarts as calm and placid as a lake in the summer. But within the confines of my brain, my mind raged and fumed in its unique manner....  
_I could see that he could be mad because I had "told" on someone, and he had always taught me not to do that- but this was Potter! And they were going to do something that was not only illegal, but dangerous! How would he feel, _I thought,_ if Potter ended up with an extra limb or so from a potion they made? Oh, and the fact that Dad didn't seem to care?_ I was angry that Dad, a teacher, would just stand by and let these idiot students, which they should control, take whatever they please!   
I didn't see Potter emerge. We slammed into each other, quite literally.  
"Watch it Potter," I said, bending down to pick up my books which I was carrying.  
"Let me help," he offered, starting to stoop.  
"I'm _fine_."  
He stood up, slowly. Potter- always the cause of my problems. It was his doings that created such a rift of hate in my family; Potter which caused Dad to be disappointed in me; Potter which just bruised my arm.  
"Um...are you going to be OK--"  
"I said I'm fine!" I said to the Gryffandor, low and threatening, and swept past him, in a hurry to nowhere, because the school day was over, and dinner was about to start.   
As I ate, slowly, talking to no one, I seriously contemplated getting Potter myself. Dad obviously didn't see the importance of this midnight journey; why else would he have ignored me so blatently? If he cared, he would have engaged me in coversation; made eye contact, certainly not create the wonderfully _appropriate_ image of his hair blocking his view of me just to grade assignments!  
I took a swig of juice, and looked down the table at my adoped "family."  
I think it was between the first and second slice of meatloaf when I made the decision. 

There wasn't anything to think about. I mean, I did suffer with an apprehension, because I was going to break a few rules, but I managed to convince myself that it was for a greater good. Even as I crept through the commonroom at 8pm (not knowing when they were going to actually enter his office), the others ignored me, because Time hath lulled them into the security of Pattern behavior- and since I hadn't told anyone about what I'd seen (and I had seen a good number of them) they figured I was an empty threat. In their eyes I had faded into the background. In reality, they had all realized what Mafloy had known the first day- that having the daughter of a teacher (and your Head of House to boot) was a major advantage, because even though their Professor Snape was in many ways mean, he still had to have the love and care for his daughter. (I mean, even he couldn't be that cold). So they let me go on my merry way.  
I supposed that the three had created some reason for them to commit this heinous act, such as I had done-maybe for an unforseen 'greater good.' I conforted myself with the fact that I was about to prevent a crime- if all went well, I could be able to blackmail the Trio. I had to smile to myself as I hid behind a rather deep and canvernous statue across from Dad's office. My plan seemed foolproof. I would enter just as they approached; after some diatribe, we would negotiate, and split up; no one would be the wiser. If they told about me, I would tell about them; and besides, I _am_ Severus Snape's daughter- it's certainly not out of anyone's paradigm for me to be doing this.  
After the first hour, my legs were weak; the second brought threat of sleep; the third brought physical weariness. I suffered for my low constitution- I was sitting in the crevice by the 2nd hour. The wait for the inevitable was suffering. I entertained myself by thinking of potions which would drive away sleep- all forms, all kinds. But even my rightous vigil felt the pangs of doubt by the third hour. What if they didn't come? All this time spent for naught. But still-  
A sound in the hall attracted my attention. Though I still couldn't see anything, I could hear the distinct voices of the Trio. I stood in a hurry, hitting my elbow in the process. Where were they? I heard a small "take off the cloak- I can't get the lock" and a wonderous sight I beheld.  
The Trio appeared before me- literally! A silver Invisibility cloak fell to the floor as they worked the lock. I could not believe such luck! I was almost hesitant to break out of my abode- but seeing the Granger girl with them, they could have the lock down soon.  
They didn't notice me- still working with the lock. I could not help but enjoy this business of irony. I chose a simple clearing of the throat to make them aware of my presence.   
They turned to me, and I smiled a nasty smile as they enveloped me with surprise.  
"You!" Harry said.  
"Yes, me." I said, slowly walking into the middle of the hall. "What are you doing?"  
"It doesn't matter what _we're_ doing," Ron said. 'What are _you_ doing out?"  
"Oh, just taking a nightime stroll," I mentioned casually.  
"Does _your Dad_ know about this?" Harry said.  
"No- and I have a feeling you're not going to tell him."  
I was laying out my cards one by one.  
"We'll tell him anyway! We're not afraid of him, just like we're not afraid of you!" Harry said.  
"I wasn't implying fear, Potter," I said, drawing my wand in the process. "Though, I'm rather surprised you brought it up."  
I crossed a little closer to Potter, waving my wand in a threatening manner. I must admit, it came naturally. I didn't plan the movement, even though I planned the rest of my speech. And rehearsed it. Several times.  
"Now, I won't tell him about your attempted robbery if you leave- now."  
"And what if we don't?"  
"Then I'll tell him- and everyone else."  
"But you'll incriminate yourself!" Hermione pointed out.  
"So?" I moved again, this time to Hermione. "I can stand one detention and a couple of loss points -while you three-" I pointed my wand at them- "are _famous_ for your illicit actions. This could be the one that, well, gets you expelled."  
Ah, my secret weapon. They turned pale, especially Hermione.   
"Come on-" I said. I pointed with my wand toward the Gryffandor commonroom. "Off you go."  
"And what about you?," Ron asked. "Are you going to leave?"  
"Maybe- but you're in no position to make me do otherwise, are you, Weasely?"  
He shyed away. I was wondering why Granger, or even Potter, hadn't tried to curse me. I certainly knew they could- they had on Mafloy countless times- but maybe it was because I was a girl-  
_(but probably its because you're a teacher's kid)_  
-that they kept their wands down. Potter bent down to get the cloak.  
"Ah-hands off Potter."  
I crossed over to the cloak and reached for it. "I think I better keep this as...collateral."  
I must have crossed a line, because Potter drew his wand as fast as I'd ever seen- both of us held our wands out, and I would have hexed him, and he me, if I hadn't seen the look of horror on Potter's face as he looked behind me. I had a sickening thought as I swirled around, wand still held up, my body as tense as a cat's, knowing exactly who it was.  
"POTTER!"  
Dad crossed to us and suddenly I was aware of the time- and place.   
"Strange meeting you three here," he addressed the Trio with malice.  
I had not lowered my wand.  
He gave them a look which some thought was reserved for Harry- but was actually used when something so abominable had been committed against his person....  
He didn't look at me for one second.  
"Come," he merely commanded them, and started walking away from the door, in the opposite direction. The trio followed. I was left with a decision- to stay or go? Knowing full well that he did see me, I followed too, leaving the silvery cloak on the floor. No doubt Dad would be there later to pick it up.  
We followed him through twists and turns, higher and higher to somewhere close to the Gryffandor commonroom. I had never been in this part of the castle before, and I watched the scenery as a meager passing distraction to my situation- for I knew that dad was madder the calmer he was. And the fact he still hadn't acknowledged my presence wasn't too encouraging.  
We stopped in front of a door- a rather simple-looking door. Dad knocked on it, and McGonagall came to the door, obviously torn from slumber.  
"Professor Snape! What is the meaning of-" She saw her Gryffandor's standing behind him. "Potter! Granger! Weasely!"  
She came out, and I saw the color rise in her cheeks. I was actually reminded of when a couple of neighborhood boys broke my grandmother's windows, and she...well...she was a lot like McGonagall was right now.  
She looked at me, then looked at Dad. She must have assumed the correct fate for me-- I, as a Slytherin, would get his personal harassment.  
"I found them trying to break into my office," Dad said, a sneer playing on his lips. He looked down at the Trio and I could see them quiver.  
"I cannot believe Gryffandors could be capable of such behavior! When you three learn-- such midnight escapdes will one day get you expelled!"  
Potter, Weasely, and Granger started babbling- Dad started to turn away, and I felt obliged to follow. I did not have to answer to McGonagall- though I wish I had to. She didn't have the added bias of being a relation.  
I could hear the ringing of the protests and the diatribe as she led them to the Gryffandor commonroom. I almost wished she would stay, because when the last rings of their speech had hit my ears, I had to face the storm.  
He merely started walking down toward his office. I followed. The night air didn't help the mood- in fact, I must say it furthered my despair. I plunged into new lows never before experienced. I had never gotten into this much trouble; what a fool I had been to think this would work; why hadn't I had known dad would handle the situation; he'll never trust me again; he'll probably send me back to Keaton....  
We stopped before the office. He picked up the cloak, and muttering something, the door easily clicked, and we went inside.   
Others might find his office creepy; I rather liked how the ingredients (most of them that I knew by name) were held up by magic, and how the entrancing glow of the ingredients created an almost heavenly atmosphere.  
He slammed the door, _hard,_ and the spell was shattered. I could almost hear the literal breaking of glass. He folded his arms and started:  
"Why were you up?"  
Here we go, I thought. I stood up straight, prepared myself for a fight, and spoke.  
"I wanted to make sure that Potter and them wouldn't break into your office."  
His head bent in a feign of thought, but it was mocking. His eyes gilittered strangely when he raised his head so my eyes met his. It was like a mixture of anger and fear in those dark irisis, but I could be mistaken.  
"And you felt it was your personal responsibility to deal with them?"  
"Yes."  
"You are not here to perform the role of taskmaster," he said, his voice rising, getting closer to me. "I am the teacher, you are the student- you are not to take such matters as Potter's disipline and ruling upon yourself!"  
"You weren't going to do it."  
He paused, a deadly pause in which I could feel his anger rising, and I bore it all- I wasn't going to crumble before him. When he spoke next, it was low and quite threatening.  
"Are you so sure about that?"  
"Well, you didn't answer me earlier today-"  
"I do not answer to you!"  
"And I can't read your mind! You make it seem as if I'm supposed to. How was I suppose to know?"  
Again, those steely black eyes, the same damn ones as my own confronted me. It was like seeing my twin.   
"You had no business even snooping around Potter! Such behavior is unbecoming-"  
"I didn't _snoop,_ dad, they were talking about it in broad daylight! It was their fault if someone overheard them! And what was I going to do, dad? Sit on the information? Willingly stand by while score after score of atrocity is committed! I thought you taught me to uphold the law!"  
I came closer, lowering my voice, almost hissing. If someone was watching, I suppose the resemblence between us was very scary- it was in anger when we were the same.  
"You don't know how many things I've seen, dad! People cheating on tests, using magic in the halls, having sex in the dormatories! Do you know how many times I could have been running in here, yelling 'Professor! Professor! So-and-so rolled the toliet paper in the bathroom in the wrong direction!' "  
I waved my hands about in mock distress. A hate-filled pause emerged, and the man whom I once worshiped almost as a god now was quickly causing me to convert.  
"So why did you come this time?"  
I stopped. Why did I tell him? He probably knew- the way he operated, he knew much of went on in the school. But I saw this for what it really was- a challenge to think on my feet. Maybe it was because I was so tired that I made up something.  
"Because I figured that somehow, all the others would be punished in some way- the fact that those who cheated would fail, someone might catch a veneral disease, I dunno-"  
I took only one breath, but it seemed the vigor I had almost attacked him with seeped through my feet into the floor. My hand now came out and accentuated every point, as if I was explaining something to a student.  
"I told you because all the other crimes were against other students- but this was an invasion into your private space. Should Potter had suceeded in his plan, it would have broken the already fragile line between student and teacher- the line that should never be broken. Your authority as a teacher must not be compromised in any situation."  
That's not the reason, my mind whispered back at me. He's your father, and whatever you might think or say, _you care about him._  
I paused. Sleep had disappeared, as the art of debate often causes it to, and it was only after I sat down that I realised that it was about 11:30 at night.  
He said naught a word. I now wondered why he was fully dressed, complete with cloak and shoes, at this time of night. His brain was working overtime, but he hid it under his haunting mask. It was awhile before he spoke again, simply.  
"I'm pulling you out of here and putting you back in Keaton."  
I was dazed. Did he said what I thought he said?  
"No, Dad- you can't-"  
"I can and will." He crossed to his desk, sat down, and started writing the letter. I got up and crosssed to his desk.  
"No- you can't- dad!"  
I saw his handwriting form the heading- _Keaton School of Magic..._  
"Dad! Come on! You can't pull me out of Hogwarts because of this!"  
"Look- you haven't learned to respect your elders- and until you do-"  
That's it.  
"Respect!" My hands found their way to his table. "Why should I respect _you_?"  
This was a new anger- one that I had never seen before. He jumped up and came toward me, more threatening than ever before. I think he would have hurt me if I had not moved or if he hadn't the mass of self-control. His mouth contorted into a horrible sneer and his whole body rang with contempt.  
"Dammit! I am your father!" he spat, and I could almost see his spittle flying. "I know more than you ever will, you imputent, little, self-absorbed-"  
"Your "knowedge" is based on weak, archtyphal judgements! Ha! And you say _I'm_ the naive one!"  
His face contorted again, and for the first time I was scared; scared that my father might actually hit me, scared that I would become emotionally scarred; scared enough to cross away from him and put a chair between us.  
I should have stopped- lord knows I should have. But I followed up, in a strong, but low voice:  
"What's the use of knowledge if not used to make intelligent decisions?"  
In the pause that followed I started to wonder how we would ever get out of this. I knew no distraction would come- everyone was asleep, happily in slumber...one of us would have to walk away. But to walk away would admit defeat- and some stubborn mule in both of us would not move.  
Dad merely sighed, in which I detected true sorrow, perhaps a little bit of regret. He continued in a somewhat subdued tone.:   
"...Despite all the ... events I have seen, despite tempations to be something else, I decided to bring some order into chaos- I decided to try to bring up a daughter in the world who has some sense of law and order, and when she abuses it...."  
"No, you decided to try to raise a daughter with your exact ideals and judgements!"  
Another silence. I had never materilalised such a thought, and didn't know it where it would go. Even my logic was telling me I was off topic- radically off topic- but something about the human psyche kept me going.   
"I am still young, dad." I spread my hands. "I have not had the opprotunity to form my own opinions about the world, because whenever I try to, I get punished!"  
My emotions were getting ready to zoom, and I lost what control I had, but looking at me you would not have known. I maintained such a stoic poise as I stood up and crossed to his new position. What scared me now, even as I stood there, sitting with one leg on the desk, was how calm I was, how calm I _appeared._ My voice remained low and smooth, though my topic was not the easiest to debate; the crystal clear mind was forming arguments even as we sat, my mind refusing to be caught in the daze of emotion. I spoke as if I was commenting upon the change in the weather.  
"You are not always right, Dad."  
Again the murderous look- but so different from class- this time he was serious. He came closer but the thrill of finally beating him at his own game powered me like adreneline: I stood straight, held my head high. Because I knew I was. Something- I can't tell exactly, whether it was a twitch of his lips, or a glint of his eye- told me I had made a point. He spoke in such a low and threatening voice, actually whispering fiercely, as if the words themselves were powerful enough:  
"How _dare_ you question my authority and actions! I only wanted to improve your education, wanted to give you intellectual satisfaction-"   
"You punish me because you know I'm right."  
I saw his eyes get wider out of fury; his fists started to clench, and I could have sworn he went for his wand....   
It happened like lightning. It was hard- not enough to create a bruise, but I could feel the stinging of my teeth where they cut my gums.  
He had really hit me. Not with a spell, not with his stinging speech, but with the back of his hand.  
Time slowed down for a bit. I could feel the pain rise on my jaw; feel the development of what I later hoped would be a swollen lip where he had made contact.   
I, I am proud to say, maintained my stature. It was like it hadn't happened. I didn't even raise my hand up to feel the wound. I continued to stare into my father's eyes, denying him any pleasure in my supposed weakened state. I merely said:  
"Well. I will certainly not be hiding in your shadow anymore."  
-and headed for the door, opened it, then without so much as a glance back, left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
I walked down the hall, and ran into the bathroom. Only looking in the mirror did the realization dawn upon me. He had hit me. My _father._ I felt my swollen lip with my tongue, and well, I knew no more.  
Everything came out, though I knew not congnatively from whence it came. I cried, with no fear of anyone coming in, because it was midnight, and I was in the part of the castle that was near none of the dormatories. It is during reflection only that I can partly piece together a coherent thought process. But then- cried, cried so hard.  
I had to turn away from the mirror; I could not confront this new, emotional soul which the argument had brought out in me. I cried, and even during the ride I felt- embarassed. Embarassed that such a feeling was coming out. Still, (I was having this mental debate even as I cried) at least I had stood my ground in front of him. My mind kept going to all the stories about abused wives I had read- women who felt powerless because of the male-dominated society they lived in, or the dominnering male partner who controlled not only their life, but their perception. I now took the chance to feel the wound, and I remember thinking savagely "I hope this leaves a bruise- a nice big dark one- so there'll be evidence."  
Alas, dear Reader, I cannot better convey my sense of the wild tulmult I was in- I can only tell you that I was in such a one- like all people, who in their life at one point or another suffered a serious and dehibilitating blow both physically and emotionally. Words will never be able to capture what I experienced. The best writers only get close. I, as a mediocre Recorder of events, will not even attempt.  
Thirty minutes or so passed in this manner- a period that went from incredible moments of lucidity about what my place in the universe is, to raging, crying, screaming fits. I slowly washed my face, exulting in the cool water as it washed away my tears, shocking me to my senses. I had had my "pity party,"as my mom often called it, and now I was ready to deal with the world. Sleep was now overcoming my senses, nice, glorious sleep, to the point that I considered sleeping in the bathroom, to save myself the journey back. But I now longed for my bed. So without any more thinking, I walked out the door, got to the commonroom, went to bed, and without changing, fell into a dreamless slumber.

I woke the next morning strangely lucid. The previous night was still clear in my memory, and yet the emotion was gone. My...outer self, as I shall call it, took its helm with a vengence. If it wouldn't allow emotion, it would allow indifference, maybe even cruelty.  
I dressed slowly, occupying my thoughts with dressing, and school work, and what we were going to cover in classes today. The robes slipped on, I felt complete- my disguise was ready, I could go without breaking into tears.  
I went to the bathroom, and said to the self in the mirror "Today is going to be a hard day." I wanted to, in a sense, feel this sorrow, let it linger a couple of days, maybe cry some more, but it didn't come. I looked into the indifferent, maybe flat face that the world saw, and I was amazed. Was I _that_ cold as to not be affected by last night deeply?   
Without an answer, I turned away from the mirror and swept out of the room and to breakfast.  
  
Maybe I wanted them to notice, maybe not. I maintained all the same attitudes, people still giving me the same looks of suspicion (but I wasn't as thrilled). I left early and found a quiet nook in the entrance hall, where I could see some others look at the House Cup Board. Not really eager to face the crowd, I waited till it died down until I could see the points, the large numbers easily discernable from where I was sitting.  
I did not have to wait, however, to see the Houses reactions, and they were as easy to guess as a pattern of circle-square-circle-square-circle.  
The Hufflepuffs, pleased a bit, because though their comrads the Gryffandors lost points, so did the Slytherins;  
The Ravenclaws, really happy, because they were now in the lead for the Cup;  
The Gryffandors, confused and dismayed, noticing the 150 points gone, and guessing that the Trio did it, again;  
And the Slytherins, looking mad, really mad, but not knowing why the points were gone (but it probably was because of the Gryffandors).  
_My God,_ I could not help think,_ they're so predictable, its funny._  
No one noticed my laughter, light enough to be hidden, but fufilling enough to content me through Divination.  
  
The whispers now became annoying- mainly because they hadn't figured out anything. Divination swam of "suppose"s and "I guess"s. Professor Trelawny guessed what they were so concerned about.  
"I suppose," she said, and I laughed mentally at the irony of her word choice, "that all of you are concerned with the major alterations in the House scores..."  
My eyes froze out of, yes, fright. Did she know...  
"The causes are hazy, at best," she acted, putting her hand to her head in a feign of great concentration. "But...yes...I see...a girl- with black hair..."  
Great, I thought, as they all looked at me. I remained impassive, almost feeling that the jig was up, but they did something I thought they would never do---they lied.  
"-But it couldn't have been her-"  
"-she was in bed last night-"  
"-I saw her go to bed at 6pm- she felt bad!-  
"I saw it too!"  
Even the jackass Malfoy voiced his disbelief, liking it to - you guessed it - Potter.  
I, like I said, ignored this exchange, not saying anything. But the conviction of the Slytherins in my defense was enough to even have Trelawny in doubt..  
"Well," she said, taking a chair, "There is a possibility of my misinterpreting the signs, which in themselves are very hazy."  
I breathed a mental sigh of relief and continued to watch the show, thankful for audience participation. (And the fallicy of their minds).  
The class ended, and I felt I was merely changing my seat and show- I had the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher next, who was always a barrel of laughs. But before I could escape the stuffy room, Trelawny handed me a note. I, of course read it as soon as I escaped the classroom, and the contents sent a surge of ice through my body:  
_Miss Sylvia Snape,  
Your detention will be at 8:00pm tonight with Mr. Filch.  
Professor S. Snape._  
His signature....I quickly folded (rather, crumpled) the note and went to Transfiguration at my normal quick speed.

And what do I hear, back in the commonroom after dinner? Ha- Potter! How he's doomed to die a horrible death at the hands of Malfoy's dad...  
The fates do indeed smile upon me, for I am blessed with idiocy. I could get away with murder, and the Morons, headed by Malfoy, would convince themselves that Potter or one of the other Gryffandor's really did it! In my chair removed from the group, half in shadow, I smiled as the mental image crossed my brain: I, with a bloody knife in my hand, a body laying face-down on the ground- and Malfoy, royally, stating "Friends- Slytherins! Lend me your ears! Potter killed this person! Ignore the fact we watched her commit the act...and she still has the bloody knife in her hands! This is Potter's doing!" Then the accomplying mob yell and the frenzied run to tie Potter to a stake.  
I felt my face contort in the darkness. Boy, do I have a wierd sense of humor.  
Really, I was surprised that Dad had any trouble controlling these brats.....  
For the first time since last night, I felt the faint sirring on an emotion trying to emerge. I hurridly pushed it down. It slid, smoothly, and I was in control.

The detention was nothing. I went at 8pm and reported to Filch to serve my detention. As I cleaned, he continued his diatribe about the trouble of students. I blocked it out, and concentrated on cleaning the tables in the Great Hall, a job usually reserved for the house elves. The methodolical approach to cleaning- the smooth, repetitous wipe of the rag, the periodic dip into the bucket of water soon lulled my mind into numbness. I didn't notice the size of the tables; the work required to scrub each and every stain (as I was required to do) was nothing- one could compare the experience to being in a trance.  
It was after 10 when I was done. I only noticed my sore muscles, not at all apprehensive about the reason behind it.  
My fellow Slytherins, however, as fickle as they are, had apparently had a change of heart.  
I entered the commonroom where half the House waited, and could I see...anger? Yes....  
"Where were you?" Mafloy asked of me. The rest of the House waited in silence.  
"I do not answer to you," I said, and even as I tried to cross the room to go to bed, I felt the haunting eyes of the House follow me, scrutenizing me. They have no right, I thought, to critique me, me of all people.   
Mafloy took a step toward me and said in a loud clear voice:  
"We know what happened last night."  
I stopped but did not turn around. Were these Slytherins smarter than they looked? Were they able to discern what really happened from the web of lies and rumors constantly passed from mouth to mouth?  
"Really," I said, still calm, as I turned around and faced him, keeping my face as impassive as ever.  
"Really. McGonagall pulled the same trick on me in my first year."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"Oh come on! You mean you haven't figured it out? Potter set you up!"  
There was a loud protest against Potter. I couldn't hide my amusement; I wanted to laugh out loud; but I restricted my merriment to a smile.  
"Oh, I knew already." Hiding a lie with a lie- oh, boy.  
"Then why did you serve the detention? Why didn't you go complain to Professor Snape?"  
"Would he really believe me over McGonagall?"  
A girl spoke from the chairs-  
"Sylvia! He's your _father!_ He 's got to believe you over Potter!"  
My stomache contorted with the reference, but I continued with, "Besides- he didn't give the detention, McGonagall did. It would be no use to complain to him- he would uphold her desision, no matter if he thought her wrong or not."  
Wow, I thought. Two lies in a night. Want to make it three?   
"That evil Potter," Mafloy was saying. "I've been waiting for _so_ long for him to be kicked out. And with all he's done....."  
The speech continued, and before anyone could say anything else, I swept up to my room.

I sat down on my bed, fully clothed. I watched the torchlight shadows dance on the walls. Here, with no one in the room, I took the chance to laugh- the sounds were hollow and errily out-of-place among the cold stone walls.  
Those MORONS! I screamed in mental anguish! How could they be so blind, so driven by their infernal hatred of Potter to construe even the most obvious! These people....are so stupid. Its that simple.  
I dug my hands into the pockets of my robes and pulled out the note. I read it again, almost freaking out at the famililar structure of his handwriting- I recongnized the clear and crisp formation of the letters- smoothly formed together.  
My arm ached as I reached over to my bedside table to an awaiting ink and quill. Not knowing the purpose of the exersize, I started to copy down the note in my own handwriting. I cannot explain what this does for me- I have always exulted the feel of forming fresh letters, little pieces of art themselves.  
When I was done, I looked at what I had done, and....   
My god...  
They're so....._similar_.  
Even the individual letters!  
See the little hook at the end, see the capital ' S ' ! Are we so similar as to have even the same handwriting? I turned my head to the side in disbelief. I wondered if I showed the same "distinguishing traits" as dad- the cold approach to others, the cruel treatement...lord knows I couldn't trust my own perception of myself.  
I felt the cold stone against my back as I sat up in bed and contemplated my fate. 

The next day the others were normal (or as normal as Slytherins are)- Malfoy still pissed. I sat down in a chair before breakfast, to briefly review my notes in History. The others did their thing, ignoring me as always.   
I was a bit startled by the dark figure I saw out of the corner of my eye. It approached me, and stood waiting in my shadow. I really didn't want to talk to her, so I kept my eyes on the notes and hoped she got the message that I was too enthralled in my work to talk.  
But she didn't move. I waited a full 20 seconds for the figure to go away, but she didn't. I was getting uncomfortable. Finally I jerked my head up, looked her in her eyes, and asked "What?"  
It came out a bit harsher than I felt, but I was annoyed.  
I saw the eyes of someone younger than me, much younger than my 17 years, get a little larger, ever so slightly. I saw the cheek twitch and the mouth open ever so subtly. I noticed the minute shift in body position as she involunterily took a step back. All this occured in a fraction of a second, and as she started to back away I saw those eyes filled with something I thought I would never see.  
Fear.  
She backed away from me, (not daring to turn her back), until she was on the other side of the room. I tried to find the reason somewhere on her physiogamy, tracing her movements with my eyes even as she retreated toward a group of friends. They gathered, talking in whispers, as if they thought I could hear them from over here....  
_She's 11 years old, Sylvia. She's _afraid_ of you_.   
_Afraid? Why should she be afraid-  
You know why._  
"My God," I whispered, as I leaned my elbow on the armrest, my hand in a fist over my mouth. Look how I treated her....I didn't give her a chance, basically snarled at her..._she's only eleven._  
Despite all of my force, despite all the willingness I tried to make myself cry, it was this simple incident which cause a single tear to start to form.  
My hand found its way to my temples, stretching the forefinger and thumb across my forehead. I closed my eyes. To a causal observer, it looked like someone suffering with a headache. But feeling the tears wet my hand was no headache, as I asked myself the question: Have I started to become him?  
_No._ A nasty voice said in my mind. _You already are._

I fully submerged myself in my other subjects throughout the day- Arithmancy was challenging enough, and Professor Flitwick in Charms made even me crack a smile. I even managed during lunch to have a minor discussion with another sixth year student, about the complicated and difficult Arithmancy lesson we had today. My mood slowly sank when I suddenly found myself standing in front of his classroom for class.  
I felt my face slide into the comfortable impassive blank slate of emotion which seemed to have been ingrained into my being. I took a few deep breaths, told myself to be calm, and opened the door.   
The coldness of the room helped me cope. It was the fact that I was in school, that now I was in class, that the man who will soon emerge from the other door is not my father, but an instructor. I pushed all thoughts of family out of my mind -- Potions was the order of the day.  
He entered, and I noted with some amusement that he wouldn't look at me. Eyes wandered all over the place, constantly observant. I merely turned away and pulled out my Potion recipe for the class.  
He didn't look in my direction once that day. I coudn't tell whether he was still hurt by what I said, whether he was still mad, or whether it was something else totally. I could tell from the inflection of his voice that he was under the cloud of _something,_ because his voice was a tad bit lower than usual; he also was more volitile and was docking points quicker than usual.  
I slowly but surely created the potion, slowly slicing the dead firelizard, then meticulously carving off the skin. I could see Longbottom start to shake just in the range of my vision: his eyes going from me to Dad-  
_(the overgrown bat)_  
swooping around the dungeons. I didn't know if he was going to come to me; I was dreading it, yet with the episode of the morning, I was strangely looking foward to it - I had to prove to him, but mostly myself, that I was somewhat different than..._him._  
He didn't, though. Not once in the two hours did he approach the lefthand table nearest to the door to his office. I kept my head down, but every time he was somewhere else- nowhere near me. Was he playing chicken? Not trusting himself to talk to me? Still feeling guilty about actually hitting me? I never knew with him.  
Longbottom was still terrified. Ooh, just what I needed, a stupid slab of flesh quivering in fright over a person- I turned to snap at him- and stopped.  
Longbottom gave me eyes very equivilant to the first year's I saw this morning. With him, though, I saw his developing double chins shart to shake and twitch.  
I locked him in my sight, unwillingly, as I fought with myself-  
_Poor guy, he's scared-  
-so what? he just has a low confidence of himself-  
-well, maybe if I helped him-  
-help him how, do it yourself? that's what you'll end up doing anyway-  
-but I don't want people to be afraid of me, that's what _he_ does-  
-or do you?_  
I closed my mouth, still looking at Longbottom who probably had the idea that I would suck out his soul through his eyes-  
_-wouldn't that be cool, though?-_  
and push toward him the bowl of Brazilian nuts.  
"Here, you can start shelling these." I didn't hide my little coldness I had, because as much as I hated to admit it to myself, to a limit I liked being the way I was. But I could not get that girl out of my mind.  
Longbottom though looked at me as if I was both a saint and a devil- he grabbed the nutcracker and started cracking the shells.  
I turned to the water, which was boiling now, and I added a few ingrediants. It was a start, I thought. Not too big or drastic, just small baby steps, and the next thing I know I'm be the next Gryffandor.  
_I don't know about that,_ my mind countered, and I let the artform of Potions consume me for the remainder of the class.

Ah, the library, I could not help but think, as the heavy doors slammed shut behind me after classes had ended for the day. Madam Pince was nowhere in sight, so I took refuge in the back of the library, my back to the wall, where I could see the few students in the room. I sat with relief, from what or who I don't know. I was finally back with my friends, ideas, words, never-lying words, where everything worked, everything had a coherant logic that could be proven. I pulled out my book- the one about the warts and archaic uses of them- looked at the cover- and had to put it away. Too many memories...  
I sat in silence, not knowing what to do. I didn't want- didn't _need_ to sit here and ponder the events of the past few days. The thoughts would bring emotions- and I couldn't be emotional, not among my friends. I would never disgrace them that way. I stared, at nothing, at everything, I don't know, and I saw a lone figure pouring over a book.   
Homework. Homework will save me.   
I quickly pulled out my History homework- an essay on the effects of World War II on international wizard relations. I started thinking, writing, forming an argument, and like that, the wonderful process of work pushed the thoughts out of my mind, as theories and evidence about the topic flowed out of my pen, and in an hour, had written the paper that was due a week from now.   
I stopped. Twilight had fallen, and the library was now almost empty. I knew where they were--in respective commonrooms, playing around the fire, for it was Friday, and no one in their sane mind would be in a library on a Friday night. The hour had passed like many under the influence of rigerous work- quickly. I felt a bit at peace, both knowing that I have reduced my workload, and the fact that I had forgotten the incident. Now I was able to think about it again, and even in an hour, some of the emotional color had left, and memory had taken over. It was easier to watch again with the color gone.   
I pondered motives and syntax, pitch and our word choices while I noticed a figure approach me. She sat at my table, where the candle illuminated the face, and the crest upon her robe.  
"Go away," I said, turning my head. I did not want to talk to anyone, especially a Gryffandor.  
"I just wanted to introduce myself," she said.   
"I know who you are."  
"Really?"  
"Yes." I wanted her to leave. It was getting hard, and I could feel the first strains of the emotions trying to get through.  
"Well, I wanted to say that I understand your position."  
How can you possibly concieve my position, I thought.   
"Hmph."  
"Well," she continued, "he always insults me whenever I answer his questions in class. And he makes fun of me, in class too, with no apparent reason."  
I looked at her face, trying to derive the secret to her sudden friendliness from her physiogamy. What is a Gryffandor doing talking to a Slytherin? My logic ran in circles, trying to come up with a plausable reason...  
But I saw what I thought was true concern. She didn't overdo it- she didn't try to convey sympathy to me; it came naturally. I shocked myself by responding.  
"He.. makes fun of everyone."  
"Yea, but he insults the fact that I know the answers."  
A pause. I looked upon this girl, the smartest girl in the class, the person with the surname of Granger, and I could not help but laugh. She looked amazed that I started chuckling but it made sense- she recieves the berating all the time in class because she knew the answers. I have been recieving it since I was born.  
I turned to my essay, the ink now dry enough to transport.  
"Don't you have a detention or something?" I asked.  
"I served mine last night."  
A pause. Either this Granger person was really stupid, or she's....something else.  
But in her naievete way, she continued: "I take it hard too. I have given importance upon Professor Snape's opinion, and whenever he insults me, then its personal. But I try to remember that's how he is. No amount of our persuasion can change him."  
Pause. I slowly turn to her, make eye contact, see the bags under her eyes. She suffered too, I could see. Her lineage- that of being a Mudblood- made her suffer. She was so eager to prove herself. I too suffered because of my lineage.....  
Oh, that's nothing, my mind thinks. She could still be lying...  
...But look at the fact she had used the pronoun "our" instead of "mine" or "yours"....   
I could feel my logic start to soften my reactions- and I responded in a gentler voice.  
"Yea, but he's your teacher," I said. "He can get mad at you, at all his students, and you will fume, or cuss him out, and he'll put a damper on your day, but that's the limit of your relationship. I," paused, diverting my eyes to the hard grain of the pine table, and smiling at the irony of the situation, "am his daughter. He puts much higher demands on me. He speaks in even deeper riddles because he figures I should get them. He expects me to know everything, especially the accepted way of decorum and his way of logic. He expects that I should follow and accept his way of thinking, perception of the world-"  
There was a pause. We heard a lone cough, its rough stacco notes breaking through the air. I had a sudden urge to spit out everything, the fact that I was drawing away from his way of thinking, the fact that I wanted to embrace holistic views, that I refused to see his way anymore, the fact that he's forcing his views upon me anyway, the fact that in the very act of teaching me intelligence, of debate, he was teaching me to fight....  
I felt the beginning of a tear come up, and I blinked, in what I suppose was undiscernable to Granger as a mere blink, but in a true effort to prevent a tear. I was not going to let her see me cry. Even then I realized sickeningly that my hesitation was due to my father's influence.   
I suddenly felt nauseated.   
"It's hard being smart, isn't it?"  
I had to nod my head in agreement. I felt a sudden urge to cry, let my whole being out. I also felt like I couldn't take all this anymore. I grabbed my stuff, then, as calmly as I could, I took my leave of her.  
I was almost at the door when I felt the hands grab me and push me against the shadowy walls of the library.

My heart stopped for a moment as I feel the figure grab the lapels of my robes and hold me against the wall. This was no student-- this was a man--I felt him towering over me--I still could not see his face.  
I hear him whisper fiercely--  
"Why were you talking to her?"  
_"Dad?!"_  
"Why were you talking to her?" he whispered again. We hear a book drop and I see him turn toward the sound. For a moment in the moonlight from the windows I see his profile, the aquiline nose, the pursued lips, and the look of someone...hunted. Then he pushes me and himself back into the shadows.  
"She came to me." I said, carefully, feeling his power and anger swirl and circulate in his hands, so close to my throat....  
"Didn't I warn you not to say anything?"  
"Yes sir." I started to cringe away from this man's grasp. This was not my father-- this...this was some crazed denizen of the night, who could easily crush my body under his grasp. He spoke too, as if he would not hesitate to choke the life out of me.   
"If I _ever_ catch you again cohorting with _anyone,_ especially one from the Gryffandor house, I swear, I will not be responsible for my actions."   
He pushed me against the wall, and I could feel my books dig into my back.  
"Yes sir," I whispered, trying not to cry, trying to ignore the pain of the books.  
He let go of me and melted into the shadows. I left the library and leaned against a wall, heart thumping and scared beyond belief. I raised my hands and I could see them shaking. 

There was no way that I could face my peers in this state, so I made my way outside to the calm cool night. Strangely, I took wonderful relief from looking at the stars. Sitting under a tree, somewhere on the grounds of the school, I could see the peaceful landscape, and how it all made sense. The hard, rocky mountains worked with the sky and trees to form a cohesive unit. It was beautiful. And the moon- ah, tonight, it was a full moon, and it illuminated the land.   
It was so peaceful now, I thought. All the silence. Everything helps everything else. Nothing is being demanded of them except for their existance. I sighed. I once knew (or I thought I knew) how to think. I once thought that knowedge was all about seperating the weak from the strong. I had a purpose for my knowedge- to both help me dominate others, feel power, and so I could please dad. But when I see dad, and I see what he has become- I wonder- will I be like that? Will I teach Potions someday with the same demeanor? Will I look at everything and everyone as either someone to conquer, or someone to be defeated by? Do I really want to be like dad? To what limit do I accept his ideas in respect of his wisdom, and when do I see the fallacy in his argument and reject them?  
These and many more questions floated across my conscience that night, as the night got cooler, and I got numb from sitting in the same position for so long. I cried for the second time in two days- cried so long, letting all my secret fears and frustrations come out in a voice that no body would ever hear.   
The weariness of emotion and deep thought finally overcame me- I had let my mind run around, and in effort had exausted it. It was time for blissful bodily rest. I lumbered up the stairs and opened the door. I turned to close the door, my hateful schoolbooks weighing me down, slowing my movenents, adding the unnesecary burden. I walked down the hall, almost enjoying the silence in a new way as I made my way down to the commonroom. I thought, in my weakened emotional state, that I would erupt at anyone or anything's influence. So I was rather surprised at myself when going to the door, I saw dad emerge and I didn't think or feel anything.  
He stopped. I stopped. The corridor was silent. I saw something foreign on his face- was it concern?  
"Where were you?" Not loud, not mad, but yes....concern.  
"I went outside for a bit."  
We didn't say a word. Each one operated in the cloud of our last encounter. He merely gave me a look and walked past me.  
Even as I left him and entered the commonroom, I could not help but think of other circumstances. No doubt that having a student out this late warrants docked points- perhaps a detention. And I would not have been surprised if Dad had docked points. But he didn't....He just let me go.   
In bed, I just wanted to pull my brain out and stop thinking. Thinking was what got me into this mess, and thinking was what kept me in it. I don't know how, but I fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
For the longest time school was my hell. I didn't need to be here-and yet I was forced to continue the repetitous movement, to continue to dip myself into the filth of the world of Hogwarts. I hated my classes now, but I kept them up because I knew I would hate myself if I quit. Even that assumption came from the formations of my father's influence. Life became merely a current that I floated in, or a potion at a steeping boil which would one second pull me under and the next second spit me out. I hated it. Worse of all was Potions. Dad felt it too- never made eye contact with me, ignored me, avoided my table when we made potions. People liked to be my partner because the teacher never came around to my table. They figured I was so perfect that he had no reason to dock points. If he had to speak with me it was in a low, flat voice, and always on official business.   
I knew also that it would be a long time before I could talk to him about it. So I let the feelings settle, I let the wound smart, I let it heal. Its just one of the wonderful growing experiences. And in the meantime life passed me by- tests came and went, Quidditch matches came and went, gossip came- and went. I didn't pay attention to any of it before because I was above it. Now I didn't pay attention because I was below it.   
It was hell.

_I don't know whats going to happen to me, I don't know if I can bear living in this limbo._ I had started keeping a journal. I needed to write this down, becuase it was becoming too much- and it was an activity which was different per day.  
_I hate it. I absolutely hate it. _   
I paused. The others were in a Quidditch match, someone against someone, I didn't care. I sat at the same tree, now writing in a journal I had found among my belongings. I think dad even bought it for my birthday some years back. If I could rely upon the memory, it waas wonderfully ironic. Tragic or Comedic?  
I looked away at the random stream-of-consciousness that filled the first page of my diary. These moments of depression, or deep introspection, always made me happy, in a very limited sense, because at least now I was aware of an issue- an issue that I could work on. After a time I quit, laying the journal and pen on the ground, and just enjoyed the distant flying and wizzing of the Quidditch match.   
A song, one I had picked up from somewhere, kept emerging. I didn't know the title, or the band, or even the verses. I just remembered the chorus:  
_'Cause I don't want the world to see me  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
That everything's meant to be broken  
I don't want you to know who I am...._  
Over and over I sang this verse, feeling as if my entity was wrapped in this simple 4-line poem, just set to music. I didn't know if dad knew, but I loved music, especially thought provoking lines, which recalled about death, or identity- the analytical questions.  
I picked up my journal again, and wrote with a new furvor-  
_I feel dead. Heck, I am dead to most all. I ask questions only in habit, I eat only because the annoying demands of the human body. I suppose there are potions which prevent that, but I dare not make them...I suppose, too there are potions that end it all- just one bitter-tasting gulp, a racking then pop. But I dare not make them. I could, though.  
That's the scary thing.  
If I'm dead in spirit, what's the use of living in body?_  
I stopped, suddenly scared of what I had written. I hadn't exactly come out and said it- but the implication was there. These were new feelings- that of ending a life- my life.  
I hoped something would come along to change my mind.  
From the depths of my mind, a song emerged- one I had not heard in years, but came back in strength:  
_Father, father, father, father  
father into your hands, I command my spirit  
father into your hands why have you forsaken me  
in your eyes forsaken me  
in your thoughts forsaken me  
in your heart forsaken me  
trust in my self-righeous suicide  
I cry when angels deserve to die  
I cry  
when angels deserve to die_  
That's all I remember of the song- but I sang it over and over- feeling the sweet sun over my pale face, hoping that it was getting a bit darker, not minding the beads of persperation forming on my brow, from the stifling school polyester robes I still wore, though it was a Saturday.  
I paused. The squid in the lake made distant ripples. I really hoped that if outside influences were to stop me from floating in the lake of my own melancholy, that they would come very soon .  
I heard the snap first, saw the shadow, knew who it was.  
"Dad."  
"Why aren't you at the Quidditch match?"  
"I hate Quidditch. I will not stand sitting in the stands with all these people yelling for some stupid sport."  
"It is Gryffandor versus Slytherin," he said, turning to me, standing to my left. His shadow fell on me, making it a bit dimmer, but still very imposing. He looked down at me with those cruel, cold, calculating eyes. I didn't get up.  
"So?"  
"Do you not support your House?" he said, low and full of hidden meaning. I hope he knew I knew what he was really talking about- he hated Quidditch as much as I did.  
I looked up at him, the sun creating an almost wierd halo effect around his body. I would wonder later if that was fate, or if it was another prey to my imagination. But I told him the truth.  
"Not really."  
He looked at me a little longer, and then turned away. He seemed preoccupied, perhaps planning his next move. Or...  
He walked away a bit, looked toward the figures still wizzing around, listening to their very dim cheers. I stood up, dusted myself off from the ground, and waited. We both knew what this was about.  
He looked to the left, leaning his hand on a tree, staring at the castle. Both of us stood there, perhaps because the silence was enough, perhaps to plan what we were going to say, perhaps even to get our courage up.  
Still staring at the castle, he spoke.  
"So- what's wrong?"  
I paused, because I didn't know how to put it coherently- within the structure named syntax of the English language.  
"Telling you would require a long time," I responded.  
He paused. "It's not....hormonal, is it?"  
"No." Just like him to jump to typical teenager problems.  
"Then what is it?"  
I didn't know if I should say. Last time I did....I lost control. And I didn't want to do that again. But there must be some way of communicating my fears without getting him mad- or me crying, unintelligible.  
"It's just...the wonderful process of being a teenager." I folded my arms and leaned against the tree. He didn't say anything for the longest time. I felt a bare breeze brush my brow, its coolness resulting from the evaporation of my persperation welcomed. When he did speak, however, it was soft and caressing, with a gentleness I had not heard from him in a long time.  
"Sylvia- " he said, "you live in a dream world- where everything is right and true, everyone doesn't judge each other based on who they're related to. Unfortuantly, out there, after Hogwarts (he gestured beyond the castle)--"  
"They are not like that," I finished quietly.   
"They will eat you _alive_ Sylvia- they will judge you based on who you know, what you do, who your relative is-"  
He walked away from me, lost in thought. "And to survive, you have to think like them. Because if your don't learn survival-- you might as well go kill yourself because you're through."  
I thought about this. I knew dad had a rough background, but I didn't know details. Something, though, had caused him to approach life like this--  
"I understand the world is heartless," I started, remaining objective. "And I understand that maintaining such an attitude is useful. But to approach everything in such a manner---I don't have a personal reason to think that way. You do--"  
I could see him in the midst of a memory, but I continued: "I don't. I have had a relatively sheltered and good life- its natural that my outlook on life is overall optimistic."  
I could see him react.   
"If something comes my way that tells me to think another way, then I will alter my thinking and go on. But living as if the world's out to screw me with no reason- it doesn't make any sense to me."  
I could see dad struggle with something- his mask did not hide the battle brewing within his mind. He turned away from me, completely, and faced the distant Quidditch players. I saw his straight, firm stature- see a bit of proudness even from here- and yet there was something else on his mind....  
"Dad?"  
He didn't turn around. He was hiding, this was his way of hiding, not in an overly blatent manner- not even just walking away. No- all he does is turn his back in an impression of power.  
I got myself off the tree and walked toward dad. I noticed how in the sun our two shadows extended far to our left- two menacing figures which reminded me of pawns in a chess game.  
_But we're not pawns....are we?_  
"Dad."  
He still didn't answer- I saw his head slighly droop. I continued to approach him.  
"Dad- you can tell me whatever's bothering you."  
I could almost see him smirk.  
"I can _never_ tell you what's bothering me," he said, and I felt a fierceness to it.  
"Dad," I insisted as I came closer (I could touch him if I wanted to), "I am no longer a child. Please don't try to protect me anymore. I have to come out of my "dream world" now; the sooner I learn how harsh the world is,...the sooner I can deal with it. Please."  
I raised my hand to touch his shoulder in the ultimate form of communication, but before I could he turned around in an angry flash of black cloth, almost whipping me.  
"Are you sure?" He asked me, and what I saw in his eyes was a bit of fanatism- so wild, unbridled, out of place that I took an involuntary step back.  
"Yes," I said, wondering for the first time what he was about to unveil- how bad was it.....  
"Because once you know....you cannot feign ignorance anymore. There are ways to uncover the truth- many ways, painful ways....no matter how hard or ardently one hides them."  
_My God, he said that as if...he knows personally._  
"Or you can tell me now," I said, "and get it over with. Look- I graduate next year- I will be out on my own very soon. I have to start dealing with the "real world" I can deal with it. Whatever it is. " I looked into his eyes, so confident, and with a last _what am I getting myself into_, said "Tell me."  
I begged him with my eyes, then my voice.  
"Please."  
My dad emitted a soft sigh.  
"Not here," he said. He turned and headed toward the castle. I grabbed my stuff and followed, my mind wild with possibilities-- of what I was going to learn.

I knew something was unusual when we did not descend the stairs in the Entrance Hall. Instead he walked foward, toward some unknown desination. Where was he taking me? I searched the now-familiar halls and found myself tracing a familiar route. When, though, we turned a corner and saw the stone gargoyle I knew we were going to Dumbledore's office.   
The question of "why" pounded in my mind as Dad said the password, and for the second time I watched the staircase appear. Again he headed for the door, and I did not know whether to follow or not. Dad's unusual behavior was not a comfort. Why couldn't Dad tell me himself? Why did he need the Headmaster's help?  
He knocked on the door gently; the door opened and instead of a bewildered Headmaster, as I expected, he took one look at Dad, then me. He opened the door and said:  
"Yes, I suppose it is time."  
_Time? Time for what?_ I paniced. Once again I entered the office, all the silvery instruments in their same place. Dad walked in and I could tell there was a conflict; I could see it on his face. Dad took his place by the door; Dumbledore sat at his desk, and I stood before them, trying to remain logical, trying to not get worked-up over nothing.  
"So," I said, my arms crossed across my chest, looking at Dad, who now stood almost painfully straight. "What is it?"  
He did not look at me; rather he looked at the Headmaster and the two exchanged looks as if I was about to stumble onto something bad. The mood of the room became very uncomfortable.  
"What is it?" I said, looking to Dumbledore. He did not say a word. I turned furiously toward Dad. "Tell me, please!" I implored. He did not say a word either. Rather they exchanged looks again, and I felt left out of the loop. I felt myself starting to get angry at them for not telling me the secret: for being left out in the cold. I was angry with my father because he had to get someone else to tell me.... Couldn't even tell me himself.....  
Dumbledore suddenly broke his gaze with my father and looked at me.  
"Sit down, Sylvia."  
I shot my father a dirty look and moved to the chair in front of the Headmaster's desk. I made no effort to conceal my anger now.  
"Severus, I want you to sit also."  
I hear his voice respond: "I thought you wanted..."  
"You are involved in this too. Sit down, please."  
I did not look as I heard the scraping of a chair landing to my right; a second later my father was sitting next to me, both of us huddled around the Headmaster's desk.  
"You should be angry with your father, Sylvia."  
Such a response caused me to freeze momentarily.  
"I should?"  
"Yes."   
I fought the urge to look at my father; instead I stared at Dumbledore. He smiled a benevolant smile, then continued.  
"In many ways, Sylvia, your predicament is much like Harry Potter's."  
This was so way off in left field that I forgot my anger toward my father and looked at Dumbledore wide-eyed. I felt my father shift uncomfortably in his chair.  
"How am I like Potter?" I asked.  
"You both have been living in the bliss of ignorance." He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair.  
"Ignorance?" I muttered, and now looked at my dad in disbelief. He was looking at the surface of the desk. I was rather dismayed to see that my father could not even look me in the eye.   
"But- why-"  
"I have not told Harry about certain events in his life," Dumbledore said, "to protect him from the truth. See, I thought that not knowing the truth would allow him to grow up as normal as a boy in his position could. But, due to...recent events, I have found that I have erred on that point."  
Dumbledore breathed a deep sigh.   
I turned to look at my father, who did not raise his head.  
"So, you're been lying to me?"  
He did not answer.  
"How long, dad? For how long have you allowed me to live a lie?"  
I glared at him, angry for not being told the truth, angry because he thought I couldn't handle it, angry for living so long in a lie.  
"Too long," but it was not my father, it was Dumbledore. "Severus, I will not tell her for you."  
He sat up straighter in his chair. "But- Headmaster-"  
"I will not. And I will tell you why. She is not my daughter. She has family, alive, who has a bond stronger than I could ever forge with her."  
Dumbledore sighed again.  
"But she must know now, Severus."  
I looked one more time at dad- and his face was so unreadable I had no idea what he was feeling. My mouth opened a little bit in disbelief, almost expectancy. This was it: he was going to tell me; but would this information be my downfall?  
I waited with apprehension. My father did not say a word; he seemed to be wrestling with his very being. I felt a little guilty with forcing my father to feel like this -- maybe it was better that he not tell me...  
In a slow, deliberate action, my father reached for the sleeve of his left arm. He pulled the sleeve up slowly -- I started to wonder what I was going to see -- he hesitated before the sleeve went past his forearm -- My breath caught in my throat -- I caught Dumbledore's eyes and they were serious beyond belief -- when I looked back at my father, he had pulled his sleeve past the forearm -- and....well...

I looked at the mark, then at Dad, then at the mark again.  
"So. I am the daughter of a Death Eater."  
The cold, hard truth chilled the empty room- it had a biting edge. I looked at my father, who was distraught, yes, but not nearly as distraught as I was inside. I folded my hands on my lap. I had so many conflicting feelings in me- fear, horror, grief, pity, jubilation that I knew not which one to display, if any. I simply sat there as apparently calm as I could be. _must appear calm_, I intoned. _Must appear calm, must appear calm, must appear calm..._  
I looked to my father, who now stared at a silver instrument on a desk: to Dumbledore, who was staring at me with very interested eyes.  
"Sylvia-"  
I held my hand up. My father stopped speaking. I turned to Dumbledore.  
"Is that it?"  
The frankness of my statement I think startled Dumbledore just a tiny bit: but he responded. "No- there is more. Severus?"  
I looked to my father as if I was awaiting for a doctor's diagnosis-cool, calm, even waiting patiently for the remainder of the result.  
_must remain calm must remain calm_  
He sighed, heavily, and now I did not care that I was making him uncomfortable.   
"What else is there?" I asked dad, sneering in a savage way.  
"Sylvia," Dumbledore warned.  
"I'm sorry, headmaster," I said, eyes still locked on Dad's tormented eyes, fully enjoying his squirming. "Tell me, _Professor._ What else is there?"  
His mouth opened as if to say something but then it shut.  
"See?" I said, looking at Dumbledore. "He can't even tell me. Where are your snide comments now? Your eloquent speeches which ring with double meaning?"  
He turned on me again like a wounded animal, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. He answered with cold frankness:  
"I am not aligned with the Dark Lord any longer....I work for Dumbledore."  
I sat back in my chair a bit._ That's it? That's rather...plain. Even for you._  
"Well, of _course_ you do," I said snidely, "You teach here, don't you? Or was that a lie, too?"  
He pulled his hand back, ready to strike; I raised my forearm in self-defense.  
"Put your hand _down."_  
We both turned to Dumbledore. His eyes now burned with an inner fury. Dad slowly lowered his hand.  
"You too, Sylvia."  
With great resentment I lowered my arm and layed it gently on my lap.   
"Sylvia, your father is a member of the Order of the Phoenix-"  
I saw his eyes get wider at the sound of that name--  
"Headmaster, is it really necessary to tell her about the Order?"  
"Yes." The simplicity of the three-letter word shocked him.  
"Your father," Dumbledore continued, "is a member of an organization which is dedicated to bringing down Lord Voldemort."  
Dad shuddered.  
"He is an invaluable member, I assure you, Sylvia. He is loyal to bringing down Voldemort."  
Dad shuddered again. I looked at my father with such a deep, resentful hate. And yet Dumbledore spoke with such conviction that even I started to doubt.  
"What do you do?" I asked.  
"Work." My father responded.  
I thought about this for a moment. "Care to elaborate?"  
"No."  
"Figures," I scoffed.  
I turned to Dumbledore, hoping for an elaboration, but he was merely watching the spectacle with those crystal blue eyes. I turned back to Dad and stared at him for the longest time, trying to see if he was lying. He was unreadable as ever.  
"He cannot tell you exactly what he does, because--"  
"It's a secret, right?" I said sarcastically.  
"Yes," he responded, with all seriousness.  
"Huh." I cocked my head a little to the side and looked between the two at a pretty silver instrument. I wondered if I should believe him, and then I felt a surgence of prickly heat on my cheek. I felt a sharp pain in my back; I felt my tongue reach up and rub my lip...and I understood. I turned to my father and spoke.  
"I do not believe you," I said, under the calmest of voices, simple and pure, not hiding my feelings anymore.  
Dad shaked his head and stood up, glaring at me as if I was the most hated object on earth. I looked up to him from my seat, retaining an almost innocent face, as if I was merely awaiting his explination of the most obvious thing in the world.  
"Proof?" he whispered. "You want proof? Here's your _proof_!"  
He savagely pulled out a set of papers from his robes and thrusted them at me. Dumbstruck, I took them. I didn't know that he had the proof available on convienent parchment....  
He turned and walked across the room as I looked at the papers, written in unfamiliar hands. I read them, looking up perodically at both Dumbledore, who now studied his fingers intently, and Dad, who either paced back and forth or had his hand in his head, as if he was dizzy.  
The papers themselves....they were letters...my father's personal letters...from men who I've only read about in the papers...names like Antonin Dolohov...Rodolphus Lestrange...  
"Lucius Mafloy!" I whispered in surprise. Neither of the adults looked at me.  
...This was like a story...a horrible story...these men talk of deaths....many deaths...like the people were nothing.....these fill the first three letters...and then there's anger....much anger....conspirisies exposed...threats...death threats...against him....against Dumbledore...against...  
Me.  
I started to breathe heavily as the descriptions got more gruesome...I was very aware of the shadows of the room, of all the minute sounds...there was a particularly crazy-sounding one from a Bellatrix Lestrange--  
_must remain calm must remain calm must remain calm_  
" 'There's always the Cruciatus-' " I started, the words coming to horrid truth in the still room. My father turned to me like lightening, face contorted in fury, eyes begging me not to read it outloud. But I did, although I could not say my _darling Sev._   
" ' --but even I find that after awhile that gets boring. Actually, Rod suggested we wait till she goes to Hogsmeade, and forcefully Apperate her out of there. Then, we get you to come, and then forcefeed her some of your poison you've made especially for Lucius right in front of you- you know the stuff- it tortures the person, and yet they don't die...Well, I told him that he should be more original, because that's what we did that with that stray Muggle in '78...' "  
Suddenly I felt very cold. I felt the paper slip gently from my grasp, not caring that it fell. Look at the almost casual way she was talking of my death....  
"I recieved those letters in June," I heard my father's voice say from across my shoulder. "They knew you were in Keaton, and so I moved you here." His voice was clipped, brusque, but there was a touch of....gentleness?  
"I understand."  
I sighed, and looked at Dumbledore. His calm demeanor crackled with concern, yet I could not tell a difference in his carriage.  
I raked my hand though my hair.  
"Well," I said quietly, "I can't say I didn't bring this on myself."  
"Sylvia, you didn't-"  
"That's not what I meant Headmaster."   
There was no use crying, or screaming -- though the little ball of energy did not dissapate from my stomache -- I realized that I had to deal with this...predicament.  
"So- what do we do?"  
"_You_ will do nothing," Dad said, "except continue acting as if you know nothing."  
I looked at Dumbledore, almost pleadingly.   
"He's right, Sylvia."  
"You mean that I can't do anything? That I have to sit at school and pretend everything's fine and dandy, when there are a group of people--" I raised my hand and pointed it toward the window, "--out there waiting to kill me?"  
"Yes," Dumbledore said with the greatest sincerity.  
I suppose they expected me to yell., rant and rave and jump around the room. I surely waited for the incoherant blabbering of a person caught in the opposite pulls of truths. I must admit though, that my last sentence was said a little hysterically. But I did not jump, rant, rave or yell.  
Instead I started to cry.  
Afterward I think it was because of what I learned. The idol of my life, my father, whom I had groomed my behavior to, whom I had taken on his chariscteristics, whom I had yes, almost worshiped, was now my double-dealing backstabbing god who had promised me heaven and given me hell, who some part of me still wanted to grovel before if only I could hear that voice talking of all the sweet world as I desired it.   
But then, in that round room, I proceeded my emotional fit without knowing why.  
I turned away from my father and buried my face in my sleeve. I had no time to feel ashamed of crying in front of my father; it was the startling realization of my future which drove me. In that one moment I knew who my father was. In that blinding moment I too realized what I was to become.  
"Sylvia."  
From within the darkness of my sleeve, I heard Dumbledore speak. I lifted my head just a tiny bit and I saw him kneeling next to me.  
"Sylvia," he said, "it's okay. Now that you know you can be aware of it. You have more power because you know-"  
I jerked my head up and turned to look at my father, who had not moved, who had not even made a move to consol me.  
I looked back at Dumbledore, those twinkling eyes so soft, comforting.  
"It's not that," I tried to say, as I sniffed. "Its-its because-" I gasped, and more tears fell. I had not cried so hard since the night Dad had hit me.  
Dumbledore handed me a white hankerchief. I daubed my eyes, Dumbledore's scent filling my nostrils with a strange strength.   
"Sylvia, you are helping the cause by staying here," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort and his Death Eaters cannot harm you here-"  
"I know that!" I waved my hand around impatiently. "I understand that. This is....something else."  
I stared at the carpet of Dumbledore's office, and tried to clear my mind....I had experienced my tears, as I had wanted to all this time, but I had to distance myself from it now...or else I knew I would walk out of here on the verge to tears. I took a deep breath, and spoke.  
"I have accepted this situation. I realize that...they....would not have threatened Dad had he not shown alliegence to you." I took a breath. "I also realize that it is in my best interest to maintain a low profile, and watch what I do and who I talk with."  
I don't know if I really believed it, but it seemed the right thing to say.  
I looked toward Dad, who merely nodded slightly.  
"What bothers me is..." I paused. Should I tell Dad the truth that I did not want to be in the same predicament 20 years from now, showing my daughter (or son) the Dark Mark on my arm? Telling my children that they have death threats against them? Trying to convince them that despite my stern demeanor, that I was essentially good? I looked at the floor, unable to look at dad. And then it was as if the priverbial lightning bolt has singed my skull with insight. I completely understood my father's position at that moment. He did not deserve this, I thought. My irrational reaction to people trying to kill me. My gaze turned to the upholstering of the chair I was in. I realized that my thoughtless accusations based on teenager egotistic tendencies had probably hurt him more than a _Crucio_ ever could. I hated to say it, but how could I have been so stupid? I suddenly felt the cold rush of pity for my father, and his double life, as I knew I could not tell him my secret fears.   
I also realized that this was not about me. That this was not even about my father. This was about....the good of the world, and what is it that one (or two) people are sacificed for its cause? Suddenly, I had the clearest picture and understanding of the concept of duty that I have ever had in my life. Suddenly, I knew my problems were nothing compared to the problems of the world. Suddenly, I knew what is was to be Severus Snape's daughter.  
"Nothing," I muttered.  
"Tell me, Sylvia." Dumbledore said, gently touching my arm, his warm strength surging through my body, almost dragging the truth out of me.  
"It's nothing," I said, as I pulled my arm away from his touch, holding my arm to my side, away from Dumbledore, seeking some inner warmth to prevent me from collapsing then and there.  
"No." I shook my head. "It is merely nothing."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Should I continue? I really have no idea of how to end this. To me there's a certain satisfaction to leaving the story right there, with Sylvia rejecting help from Dumbledore and fighting with herself. The story is NOT about Snape being a spy and is NOT about the Voldemort conundrum, it is about a child dealing with such an influence as Snape as a father figure. But, hey, if enough people want to see the plot continue, I will. Any and all plot and endings will be considered. Make your opinions known either in a review or email me at mssnape_34@yahoo.com.

The first song that Sylvia quotes, I unfortuantly do not know the name or band who produces the song. I am not trying to take credit for it, however. The second song is _Chop Sue__y_, by System of a Down.

"who had promised him heaven and given him hell, who some part of him still wanted to grovel before if only he could hear that voice talking of all the sweet world as he desired it." is taken (lovingly, and with great admiration) from Zebee's _If You are Prepared_, found on fanfiction.net. The concept and sentence seems just to fit so well.

"for being left out of the cold" is an allusion to Robert Frost's poem "The Runaway"

Sarah, the white handkerchief is your fault. (inside joke).

This one is dedicated to my father, whose Snape-like behavior (though painful at times) has made me a better person.


End file.
